


Sweetest Friend

by bactaqueen



Series: Sweetest Friend [1]
Category: AFI, NIN - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 01:52:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2292518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What have I become? …I will make you hurt.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweetest Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people or events is entirely coincidental.
> 
> Author’s Note: Originally posted June 2005.

Slipknot’s forthcoming record blared from speakers hidden within the shadows of the large room, and Trent found himself smiling a small, self-satisfied smile. He wondered who had gotten his hands on the record. He wondered just how long Rick would allow him to live. And he wondered what inventive means would be used to punish the thief.

But the smile and the morbid fantasies were short-lived. He swallowed another mouthful of warm domestic beer; it wouldn’t do for sobriety to set in. The liquor flowed like water tonight, the party’s main saving grace. Despite how cool any one, two, or five of these people may have been on their own, the three hundred or so of them together created the sort of situation he would never have been able to handle had he remained sober. As it was, he had only a slight buzz--and he’d resolved to strangle the next pop-culture whore who asked what he’d been up to since "Closer" and what the fuck was wrong with his hair.

Moodily, Trent surveyed the crowd packed into the living room. There were faces he recognized, and well he should have: he’d toured with some of them, worked with others, and obsessively avoided more of them. But most of the faces he knew by reputation alone, and if he was completely honest with himself (and anyone else who cared to fake an interest), that was as intimate a relationship as he sought.

Marilyn was suddenly at his side, towering, swaying, drunk. He dug a sharp elbow into Trent’s sorely under-protected ribs and chided in his strange, throaty monotone, "Look alive, would you? Jack’s ready to start throwing out everyone who isn’t having fun."

Trent glanced up at his former protégé and wanted to question the number of absinthes Marilyn had consumed before arriving fashionably late to the party and starting in on the homeowner’s impressive collection of bourbon. He was even tempted to ask where Dita was, for the simple sadistic pleasure that would bring.

"I’ll save him the trouble," Trent said darkly, and set his cup down on the edge of a low table. "I’m leaving."

Marilyn’s eerie eyes bored into his for a moment before the taller man mumbled, "You’re such a fucking featherweight." Then his tall, awkward figured melted into the crowd, and Trent was once again alone.

Trent glared at Marilyn’s back. He’d only come tonight because Marilyn and David had insisted. There would be important people, they said. And girls. And alcohol. And girls. They’d really stressed the part about girls. He didn’t have it in him to explain that girls were too much trouble now.

He didn’t want to be here. He wasn’t going to stay unless he had a very good reason--and thus far, a very good reason hadn’t presented itself. He was prepared to leave.

That was when a particularly black shadow shifted independently of the others around it. Trent let his eyes follow the movement. What he saw made him freeze, made his breath hitch, and made him realize that there was, indeed, a very good reason to stay.

Shiny black hair fell around a pale face. Exquisite lips were painted bright crimson and dark eyes were lined with heavy black. There was more black: t-shirt with an obscure band name printed in stark white, pants that fit entirely too well to be legal, weighty-looking boots. Intricate tattoos covered the visible skin of the arms. Fine-fingered hands bore polished black-painted nails.

A name slammed into Trent’s brain with the force of a Mack truck: Davey Havok.

That boy was prettier in person than he was in any of his lovely pictures, Trent decided.

He started when Davey glanced up and locked those dark eyes to his for one breathless heartbeat. There was something in those eyes... and that was really all he needed, wasn’t it? Trent shook his head to clear it and tried to force his legs to carry him to the door and out into the cool Beverly Hills evening. What was he thinking? Some little voice--the voice of reason--was nagging him to reinterpret the glint in those dark eyes, to reevaluate the situation and come up with an answer that didn’t end where his id desperately wanted it to end. That little voice wanted him to abandon the opportunity fate just might have presented him with.

But reason wasn’t controlling his legs, and Trent found himself making his way through the pressing crowd. Davey was alone now, watching him come closer with eyes that seemed hungry somehow.

When he was near enough, Trent delivered his ice-breaker. "A horror and erotica writer in the nineties cited me as inspiration for her work. She had a tendency to borrow lyrics from the Cure and Bauhaus." Trent let a calculated pause pass. "Do you think we have anything to talk about?"

The smile that tugged at the corners of Davey’s lips made Trent’s pulse jump. "I’m sure we could come up with something."

***

  
It was late--or if the depth of darkness beyond the window was to be trusted, it was very early. Trent hadn’t looked at a clock or his watch in a while. He had also abandoned alcohol in its various forms for the evening. He and his thoughts were startlingly lucid.

He wanted Davey. I have to get this boy home. It was like a mantra on infinite loop in his brain, slightly surprising, incredibly strong, shockingly reckless.

For his part, Davey didn’t seem entirely clueless or unwilling. He sat on one end of the old velvet couch, turned slightly toward Trent, playing with the rings on his fingers or stray hair as it fell over his eyes. His looked from Trent’s eyes to his lips and back again, sometimes curious, sometimes with a heat that made specific parts of Trent’s anatomy twitch. He was talking about someone--Tim Burton, or William Burroughs, or R. Crumb or Robert Smith--but Trent hadn’t followed the conversation. The shape and movement of Davey’s lips were far more interesting. The texture and sheen of his hair sent Trent’s mind into wondering how it would feel balled up in his hands, flowing between his fingers. The melodic quality of his voice made Trent want to know the sort of noises he might spill in the throes of passion.

Finally, Trent had had enough. It felt dishonest, and he was growing tired. He gave up, leaned in close, and pressed the tips of his fingers to Davey’s painted lips. "You want to fuck?" he asked quietly.

Davey blinked.

Trent went on, keeping his voice low and even to avoid being overheard, "Because that’s where I saw this ending. I mean, we can take this slow--I’m going to be in town a while. Or we could just get right down to it." Trent paused and let his eyes rove over Davey’s face. "It’s your choice," he finished. He lowered his hand.

Davey sat in stunned silence for only a moment. Then his eyes darkened and his pink tongue darted out to wet his perfect red lips. "We can’t go to my place," he said. Trent was struck again by how very soft his voice was. "Let’s call a cab."

Trent smiled. "Now we’re talking."

* * *

  
The mercifully short cab ride was spent in silence broken by soft easy listening emanating from the cheap speakers. It only served to remind Trent why he’d grown to prefer male companions to the company of females: if it had been a woman on the seat beside him, Trent felt sure she’d want to “talk.” All the women he knew would want reassurance that he would still respect them when this was over. They were all so pathetically uncertain. The joke was that for the most part, he barely respected them to begin with.

Davey remained silent as Trent directed the driver into the driveway of a Mediterranean-style villa and ordered the elderly man to park near a large palm tree. Wordless, Davey climbed out of the car and waited in the shadows while Trent paid for the cab. And as he fished the ungodly amount of cash from his wallet, Trent reflected that he was really, really going to need that car if he had any plans for remaining in southern California for any substantial amount of time.

With Trent in the lead, they moved through the darkness enshrouding the house and the yard. Trent fumbled first with the unfamiliar keys, then stumbled on the short steps that led up the tiny porch. Long-fingered hands steadied him and guided him up the stairs. Trent wondered if Davey’s sight was better in the dark or if the younger man just had a feel for the grounds.

As he fumbled more with the key and the new lock, he found himself silently cursing the housekeeper Rick’s assistant had hired. The woman was incompetent; she couldn’t even leave a light on when she left, or set the timer for them. For a moment, Trent was lost in frustrating complaints. His clothes... his kitchen... the living room, dining room, bedroom, and bathroom... Daisy... He didn’t understand. He wasn’t a slob. Back home, Ginger never seemed to have trouble with the house. What was different?

Then Davey’s fingers covered his, and Davey’s body pressed against his, and Trent was dragged inexorably back to the present, reminded of just what he was doing and why. Davey’s fingers guided the key into the slot and turned it; locks tumbled open. His breath was warm on Trent’s neck, contrasting sharply with the cool steel of the ring piercing Davey’s lip that brushed against Trent’s skin.

"What about the security system?" Davey asked softly.

Trent twisted the knob and leaned his weight into the door. He and Davey tumbled into the foyer. Sardonically, Trent shook his head as he sought the glowing pad. "The cops will probably be here soon to arrest us," he told Davey, even as he input his code and the green light began to blink. Trent sighed.

From behind him came a click and then the sound of the locks tumbling into place. Then Davey’s voice, still shockingly soft: "Where are the lights?"

Trent closed his eyes. The alcohol he’d consumed was finally getting to him. He could feel it swimming in his blood and sloshing around in his brain. It made him lightheaded. "Leave them," he said, and cursed the breathy quality of his voice. "And we don’t have to be quiet," he added, as much for Davey’s benefit as for his own.

"I have no intention of keeping my voice down," Davey assured him, and his dark smile was evident even in the lilt of his voice. After a pause that felt calculated, Davey continued. "So, are you going to kiss me, or shall we get right down to it? I’m sure the door can handle our weight."

Trent laughed and turned, reaching for the younger man. "I thought we’d use the bed. It’s considerably more comfortable."

Davey came willingly into his arms. "I bet."

Trent closed his eyes against the shadows. Davey’s body pressed against his: solid, real, warm. Sweet, hot breath ebbed and flowed against his neck. Davey’s arms wrapped around him and held him close. It felt to Trent as though Davey were waiting; his body seemed almost to quiver. Trent sighed softly. "Now’s your chance to back out, Havok."

Davey’s lips very lightly brushed Trent’s jaw. "Not on your life, Reznor. Hurt me. Leave me sore."

This boy knew just what to say, didn’t he?

Trent groaned softly and lowered his face. Davey met him halfway, and the crash of lips was fierce. Mouths opened immediately, tongues dueled for space and dominance. The sigh that came into Trent’s mouth tasted like late summer. Bodies pressed searchingly together and hands groped shamelessly.  
Stumbling and staggering, they eventually made it to the big bedroom near the back of the house. Clothing was left scattered from the front hall to the foot of the bed; it wasn’t soon enough for Trent that bodies were stripped bare, skin flowing against smooth pale skin. It wasn’t soon enough that Davey’s lovely body was laid out for the taking.

Davey was sprawled on his back, his head supported by an overstuffed pillow, his black hair falling messily around his face. His legs were spread, his erection nearly full. His eyes were dark and so hot. His hands skated over Trent’s body, caressing and teasing.

"Fuck me, hurt me," he pleaded hotly. His eyes begged. He moved one leg to hook around Trent’s hip.

Trent fisted his hands in Davey’s hair, took a moment to let his eyes devour that perfect face, then kissed that willing mouth once more, thrusting his tongue in. He groaned when Davey rocked that tight ass against his aching cock; this boy was such a tease. He was sorely tempted to do precisely what was requested of him and pound mercilessly into the body below him.

But the beauty of this boy ultimately demanded more than simple use, no matter what his body was screaming. Trent broke the kiss, fighting off Davey’s enthusiastic tongue, and let his slick lips trail over Davey’s chin and slide down his neck.

"Patience," Trent murmured, and lifted to catch Davey’s lips once more. It seemed he couldn’t get enough of these kisses. He sucked and bit at the raw flesh. "We aren’t in a hurry," he added breathlessly when he drew away.

Davey raked sharp-nailed fingers down his back, leaving trenches that burned. "It’s been so fucking long, Trent," he moaned.

Trent smiled against Davey’s ear before he tongued the soft flesh and blew a breath over it. "Been a while for me, too," he admitted quietly. He nipped the tender skin below Davey’s ear. "Keep saying my name like that."

He kissed Davey’s swollen lips once more before beginning the journey down. Teeth tested flesh; Davey’s urgent gasps let Trent know what to do again. Trent used his hands, digging the heels of his palms into the pillow-top bed and the soft sheets, holding himself over Davey’s writhing body, moving slowly down, down...

Davey keened and sank his long fingers into Trent’s hair, twisting and pulling almost violently. Trent resisted Davey’s force, but only slightly; he took time to bite viciously at hard little nipples, to lick a wet line down the center of the inked flaming heart, to dip his tongue into Davey’s navel, and to scrape his teeth against the skin between the sharp points of Davey’s hipbones. Those hips bucked when Trent paused, rubbing the length of Davey’s now fully-erect cock achingly against the side of Trent's neck.

Trent smiled when Davey moaned piteously. When he spoke, his voice held an edge of danger. "Ask for it, Davey. Beg for it."

"Suck me, please, Trent..." Davey gasped and pushed his hips up again. "Please," he whimpered.  
And those breathy pleas never ceased, even as Trent lowered his lips to the head of that hard shaft and kissed it, then parted his lips and took an inch in to tease with his tongue. Davey’s back arched. His hips undulated, aided by Trent’s hands under the curve of his ass, and, impatient, he began thrusting fast and shallowly into the warm, wet mouth wrapped around his sex.

Davey sucked in a sharp breath and suddenly stopped. His body protested; his muscles quivered; stubbornly, Davey refused to move.

Undeterred by his partner’s abrupt lack of participation, Trent went down hard, taking the length of Davey in deep. He fought his gag reflex and tightened the muscles of his throat around the shaft inside him. His hands lifted Davey’s hips, drawing him in even deeper, and then he pulled back only enough to catch his breath. Damn, who knew giving head could be almost as much fun as receiving?

"Stop--Trent, no--" Davey’s words cut off in a pathetic moan. With the fingers buried in Trent’s hair, he tried to pull the older man away. "Stop, please," he begged, voice breaking. "Please."

The near-sobbing quality of his tone drew Trent’s attention. Reluctantly, he let Davey slip from his mouth. He raised his head and licked his slick lips as he gazed up the length of the sinuous body before him. "What?" Trent managed, slightly breathless. "What’s wrong?"

Davey’s eyes were closed tightly. His wet lips were parted as he drew ragged breaths. His crimson lipstick had been smudged--Trent didn’t doubt that he had traces all over his face and neck. Davey’s hair was wild, fanning out on the pillow, straying across his face.

"You have to hurt me," Davey insisted in a voice that was soft urgency. "I can’t--not without--I need--"

Trent frowned. The desperation in Davey was disconcerting. The need in him was evident, palpable. Masochistic, Trent thought. He blinked slowly and took in the sight spread before him. Davey’s pale skin was beautifully flushed. He was biting his bottom lip, worrying the ring. His body still strained; his cock pulsed in time with his heart. He needed to come. Trent could see that.

"Just fuck me," Davey panted. He tossed his head and thrust his hips up.

Trent’s cock twitched in response to Davey’s plea. He stifled a groan and lowered his head as if in prayer. Davey’s dick trembled dangerously close to Trent’s lips. He stroked fingers along the curve of Davey’s ass and slipped a forefinger between his cheeks. Trent pressed the pad of his thumb against the puckered mouth of Davey’s anus and looked up when Davey sighed. The younger man’s face was twisted now in pleasure.

"Yes," Davey breathed happily. "Please..."

Trent brushed his lips to the tip of Davey’s cock. "I’ll be right back," he said. He started to push himself up, to move off the bed.

To his surprise, Davey looped arms around him and hooked legs around his hips. A bit taken aback, Trent locked his elbows and held himself over Davey. He gazed down at the wide, dark eyes that begged him for something he was more than willing to give.

"Fuck lube," Davey said forcefully, the first show of dominance he’d displayed all night. He rubbed suggestively against Trent.

Before he could think, Trent was obeying Davey’s demand. He was thrusting hard and fast, hitting deep with each stroke. Davey was crying out in perfect rhythm. He released Trent from his arms and reached above his head to curl those long, slender fingers under the edge of the headboard. He rocked urgently.  
Trent shifted his weight but never lost the power or pattern of his thrusts. He braced himself on one arm and reached for Davey’s cock with his free hand.

"Scream for it, Davey," Trent hissed. "Scream for me. Tell me you like it. Tell me you fucking love what I’m doing to you." Trent couldn’t help the groan that bubbled up. "Look at me." He meant to demand, to give the man below him no choice, but it came out only as a request.

Davey’s eyelids shot open anyway, and his eyes shone with unshed tears--of pain or pleasure, Trent couldn’t be sure. Maybe both. In any case, the younger man was a master of submission, moaning his name and obscene encouragement.

Trent lowered his head, unable to meet those wide eyes any longer, and sank his teeth into Davey’s shoulder as he came, spilling months of frustration into the lithe body below him. He continued to jack Davey off, yanking and squeezing until he finally felt the warm stickiness spreading over his hand and between his fingers.

With a gasp, Trent pulled out of Davey and collapsed on the bed beside the younger man. He was tempted to lick his fingers clean and work on cleaning Davey off, too, but he figured Davey’s seed would taste a thousand times better spilling hot and fresh down his throat... later.

They lay together in silence punctuated only by their struggling breathing for long, long moments. For Trent, the simple comfort of a body--a warm, beautiful, human body--was as satisfying as the sex.

As the pink dawn light began to spread into the airy bedroom, Trent sighed contentedly and rolled to his side. He drew Davey into his arms and spooned his hips and legs behind the younger man.

"You were great," Trent murmured into Davey’s hair. He brushed his lips to the back of Davey’s neck. "You don’t have anywhere to be?"

Davey’s sigh came quietly as he closed his eyes and let Trent pull him closer. "Not until later," he said.

Trent rested his forehead against Davey’s neck. "Stay," he suggested, and felt proud that his voice betrayed none of the fear or uncertainty swimming in his brain. "We’ll sleep for a while and give this another go."

"I’d like that," Davey agreed.

The tension melted from Trent’s body. He let his fingers slide across Davey’s stomach and wondered if he shouldn’t suggest a shower and a change of sheets before they slept.

Davey trembled.

Trent asked, "You cold?"

After a heavy silence, Davey asked quietly, tentatively, "Could you just... hold me?"

Trent wanted to frown, but he didn’t want Davey to hear it in his voice. "Of course." He tightened his arms around the slender man and locked the full length of their bodies together.

Just before sleep claimed him, Trent heard Davey murmur, "I just want to be done with the pain."


End file.
